The Heart Won't Lie
by razztaztic
Summary: My story for the 2012 Secret Santa Fanfic Exchange, organized by Biba79, which answers this prompt: "What if Booth hadn't been able to get to Brennan in time and she was hit by the car in 'Doctor in the Photo?"
1. The Heart Won't Lie

**AN: This ****is ****my ****story ****for ****the**** 2012 ****Bones ****Secret ****Santa ****fanfic ****exchange ****organized ****by ****Biba****79. ****My ****prompts ****came ****from ****Excellent ****Driver ****and ****the ****first ****of ****the ****three ****she ****listed ****was ****this****: **_**What **__**if **__**Booth **__**hadn**__**'**__**t **__**been **__**able **__**to **__**get **__**to **__**Brennan **__**in **__**time **__**and **__**she **__**was **__**hit **__**by **__**the **__**car **__**in**__** "**__**Doctor **__**in **__**the **__**Photo**__**?" **_**That ****idea ****just ****jumped ****out ****at ****me ****immediately. My first, instinctive reaction was that I couldn't possibly go there, there was no way I could - or should - touch that moment. I mean, _DitP_ is sort of a sacred cow for _Bones. _Should I dare to apply a fanfiction twist? Yikes. There would be wailing and gnashing of teeth and rending of garments - I'd probably be hung in effigy by the condescending self-proclaimed Deciders of What is Acceptable in Fanfiction crowd - there would be voodoo dolls named MJ, filled with pins and needles . . . Fuck it. I'm doing it. And, obviously, I did. Let the hand-wringing begin! :-)**

**E****-****Drive****, ****thank ****you ****so ****much ****not ****only ****for ****this ****prompt ****but ****your ****other ****two ****options****, ****as ****well****. ****You ****can ****bet ****I ****will ****also ****be ****using ****both ****of ****them ****later ****on****!**

**(The name and chapter titles for this fic come from a song called _The Heart Won't Lie, _sung by Reba McEntire and Vince Gill. It's an old '90s country song, lovely not only in lyrics but because Vince Gill has what I think is one of the most beautiful tenor voices ever. The song gives me goosebumps and the lyrics are made for this story. It's worth a YouTube look, if you don't hate country music.)  
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**Thank you for reading.  
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"What else did you learn in that lecture?"

"That there's no such thing as objectivity. That we're all just interpreting signals from the universe and trying to make sense of them."

Micah's simple answer to a question about a lecture series buzzed around Brennan's brain. She looked up at him quizzically. "Signals from the universe," she repeated thoughtfully.

He nodded. "Dim, shaky, weak, staticky little signals that only hint at the complexity of a universe we cannot begin to comprehend." Then he smiled, his warm brown eyes sparkling with humour, and shrugged with typical Micah-like self-deprecation. "That's what the lecture said, anyway." He looked around the room one last time, then casually walked away.

Brennan's eyes widened as a thought occurred to her. "Signals . . . from the universe." She fumbled with the scattering of papers on her desk until she found the small pouch with the disc she needed and inserted it into the CD player. She switched it on and pressed the headphones back into her ears. As her own voice filled her head, she paced restlessly around limbo.

"_Charlie __Whaling__, __nine __years __old__, __presented __with __a __subarachnoid __hemorrhage __after __automobile __collision__. __Emergency __HCT __showed __extensive __damage __around __the __aneurysm__, __which __had __thrombosed__. __He __rapidly __deteriorated __to __the __point __of __complete __expressive __aphasia __and __right __hemiplegia__. __Whaling __family __has __yet __to __update __organ __donation __status__."_

She hurried to a desk covered in files, picked them up individually and just as quickly tossed each one aside until she found what she wanted. "Charlie Whaling was brain-dead. You wanted his heart for Sam Dworsky," she realized. "Where did Charlie's parents live?" she asked as she pulled a Jeffersonian notepad close.

Once again, the information came out in her own voice._ "1255__B __Franklin __Street__, __in __Woodland__."_

With a jerk of her hand, she removed the ear buds and, her strides long and purposeful, went immediately to her office where she slowed only long enough to grab her coat from the wooden tree on which it hung and confirm the pocket held her wallet. From the catwalk above the platform, Micah watched the sliding doors close behind her.

Rain was just beginning to fall when Brennan left the Jeffersonian. She had taken only a few steps in the direction of the closest metro stop before a passing cab caught her eye. "Taxi!" she yelled, as she flung out her arm. "Taxi!" When it rolled to a stop, she slid gratefully into the warm interior. "Woodland," she told the driver when he turned back to ask her destination. "Franklin Street."

Beneath a Washington Redskins baseball cap, the driver's face expressed his disdain for the location. "Woodland? At this time of night?" He shook his head. "What's somebody like you want in Woodland?"

"Please hurry," was Brennan's only response.

Disgruntled, he nonetheless gave in. "I'm gonna need half the fare up front, lady."

Without comment, Brennan withdrew her wallet and handed over $20. "Is this sufficient?"

"I guess." He tucked the bill above his sun visor and pulled out into traffic.

Staring out the rain-splattered window, a wild whirlwind of disconnected thoughts and snatches of old memories spinning through her brain, Brennan didn't notice him studying her from the rear-view mirror. She didn't see the road or the traffic outside, she saw Booth standing in front of her again, frantic and almost desperate. He morphed into a tall, young pilot with sad, regret-filled eyes . . . who became a macabre fleshless hand wearing her mother's dolphin ring.

" _. . . __she __became __logical __to __the __extreme__ . . . __she __made __herself __not __care__ . . ."_

" _. . . __I __don__'__t __have __your __kind __of __open __heart__ . . ."_

" _. . . __she __made __herself __not __care__ . . ."_

" _. . . __I__'__m __that __guy__, __Bones__ . . ."_

" _. . . __God__, __I__'__d __have __been __so __good __for __her__. __She __should __have __given __me __a __chance__ . . ."_

" _. . . __in __order __for __her __to __stop __feeling __nothing__, __she __began __behaving __erratically__ . . ."_

" _. . . __she __made __herself __not __care__ . . ."_

" _. . . __just __give __it __a __chance__, __that__'__s __all __I__'__m __asking__ . . ."_

" _. . . __I__'__m __a __scientist__, __I __can__'__t __change__ . . ."_

" _. . . __look __at __the __way __things __turned __out__. __What __did __she __have __to __lose__?"_

" _. . . __she __began __behaving __erratically__ . . ."_

" _. . . __I __believe __in __giving __this __a __chance__ . . ."_

" _. . . __I__'__d __have __been __so __good __for __her__ . . ."_

" _. . . __what __did __she __have __to __lose__?"_

" _. . . __it __was __her __biggest __regret__ . . ."_

"Stop!"

Cursing beneath his breath, the driver slammed on his brakes at Brennan's shouted order and immediately struggled to control the car as it skidded forward on the wet pavement. "What the hell, lady!" he yelled angrily.

Brennan ignored him and opened her door. "I'll be right back," she said, just before she threw it closed behind her.

He lowered the passenger window and peered out into the darkness. "Hey," he shouted after her, "you think I'm gonna wait?" He glanced down at his meter. "You still owe me fifteen bucks!"

His words never registered as she walked out into the middle of the street. Her head turned toward a row of apartments, then she reached into her coat pocket and withdrew a scrap of paper.

"I ain't gonna wait long!" he yelled again. "I ain't getting jacked for no fifteen dollars!" Frustrated, he rolled up the window. "Crazy-ass white people," he grumbled. "I knew I shouldn't have-"

Something in the road itself caught her attention; Brennan knelt down to examine it more closely.

The interior of the cab was suddenly illuminated by the bright headlights of a car speeding around the corner.

Brennan stood up.

Brakes squealed and locked.

"Shit!" The cabbie's fist pounded against the horn in the steering wheel. "Get out of the way, you crazy bitch! Move!" he screamed.

Tires hissed against the wet surface of the road as the driver of the other car lost control.

Brennan's arm shot out in a futile gesture of protection.

"NO!"

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Booth allowed the door to fall shut behind him as he entered his apartment and dropped his gym bag to the floor with a thud. With a weary sigh, he sank down on the couch and, eyes closed, let his head fall back.

"Hey!" Hannah's upbeat tones came from his left. "I thought I heard you come in."

"Uh," he grunted. Without lifting his head he let it swivel toward the sound of her voice and opened his eyes. His brow furrowed as he took in the shoulder-baring dress she wore and the earrings she was just putting in. "I thought we were staying in tonight."

"Yea, about that," she began, switching her attention to her other ear. "The network is having a little thing and I need to be there." When he didn't respond immediately, she paused. "You don't have to go," she offered, somewhat grudgingly, "if you don't want to."

His hesitation was only barely perceptible before he shook his head and smiled. "No, of course I'll go with you. Just give me a few minutes to get moving again."

"mmmm." She sat down next to him and put a hand on his knee. "Rough day?" she asked sympathetically.

His eyes fell shut again. "Yea . . . it's this case - I can't -" He spread one hand across his forehead and rubbed his temples with his fingers and thumb. "And something is eating at Bones . . . she's . . . I don't know, there's something . . ."

"She didn't seem herself yesterday, when we were in your office," Hannah agreed. "It's not like her to snap like that."

Booth sat up. "I know." He loosened his shoulders by rotating them with a wide, circular movement. "I just can't get a handle on what it is, though. Or why."

Hannah gave his knee a squeeze. "Well, I wouldn't worry about it," she consoled him. "I'm sure Temperance will figure it out eventually. After all, she's brilliant, you know - just ask her!" she added with a laugh.

Booth's lips curved upward in a move that resembled a smile before he pushed himself to his feet. "Okay, shower," he announced and headed toward the bathroom. "Fifteen minutes," he promised over his shoulder, "and we're out the door."

With the water at the hottest temperature he could stand, Booth braced himself beneath the shower head and let the harsh spray beat down over his neck and shoulders. The heat offered some relief to muscles that ached from the night's overuse at the gym but did nothing to ease an exhaustion that felt as if it went bone-deep. Resigned, he shook his head and turned off the shower. He was just tired, he told himself, as the water drained away. Nothing more. He'd go to this party with Hannah, maybe talk her into leaving early. They'd come home, have sex, he'd get a good night's sleep and tomorrow, it would all be different.

Tomorrow, he'd figure everything out.

He'd just stepped out of the shower when he heard his phone ring from the living room. "Can you get that?" he yelled as he reached for a towel. "Hannah?"

"Okay!" Her voice carried clearly through the closed door.

After drying off, Booth used the towel to clear the steam from the mirror then wrapped it around his waist.

Outside the bathroom, Hannah knocked once then pushed the door open.

"Who was that on the phone?" he asked as he ran a comb through his hair.

She hesitated. "It was Dr. Hodgins." She still held his phone in her hand.

Booth picked up his toothbrush. "He got something for me?"

"Seeley . . ."

A note in her voice raised an alarm. His hand froze on the faucet as he met her eyes in the mirror. "What?"

Her face was pale. "There's . . . there's been an accident."

His gaze sharpened. "Is Angela okay? Baby okay?"

Hannah shook her head. "It's not - " She took a deep breath. "It's Temperance."

The toothbrush clattered to the sink as he turned to face her directly. "What?"

She looked at him with sorrow etched on her face. "Seeley - "

Booth took an almost threatening step forward. "What about Bones, Hannah?" he demanded. "What happened? Is she okay?"

For one moment in time, while he waited for her answer, it felt as if the earth ceased to rotate.

Finally, she shook her head again.

"Seeley," she whispered, as tears began to form, "they don't think she's going to make it."

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_**What? I just left it there? Just hanging like that? **_

_**I can't believe I did that! It's awful! I should be ashamed of myself! I'm the Worst. Person. Ever! **_

_**I mean, really . . . talk about a shameless ploy to get you to keep reading . . . geez. The nerve!  
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_**But you'll be back to find out what happens next . . . right? **_

_**:-D  
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**__****(Thanks for reading!)**  



	2. After the Scattered Ashes Fly

**AN: You guys! Seriously, all those reviews and alerts? You're all my new best friends! My usual brand of silly & fluff doesn't normally generate that kind of reaction so I'm trying not to say 'aw, shucks' but honestly? Aw, shucks. And, thank you! I'm glad you're reading. :-)**

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Booth burst through the doors of the emergency room in an explosion of urgency. Behind him, Hannah raced to keep up with his pace. Only when he caught a glimpse of Cam pacing in a small waiting room just off to the left of the hallway did his frantic dash come to a halt.

"Where is she?" he demanded immediately. His fear, barely held in check, was a palpable, vibrating presence in the room. One half of the collar of his black leather jacket was tucked under the neckline of his t-shirt . . . his hair bore the marks of fingers that raked through the damp mass repeatedly . . . his jaw tight, his posture brittle, he looked dangerously on edge.

Everyone who had been seated stood up at his entrance.

"She's still in surgery." Cam looked up at the plain clock on the wall and then rechecked the time on her watch. "I don't know what's taking so long -"

"What the hell happened?" Booth's scorching glare touched every occupant of the room as if he blamed them individually for the accident. There was a beat of silence as they exchanged hesitant, uncertain glances and then five voices spoke at once.

" . . . we don't know exactly . . ."

" . . . hit and run . . ."

" . . . Paul was called in to meet a patient, he recognized . . ."

" . . . in the middle of the street . . ."

" . . . spoke to Russ, he's going to contact Max . . ."

" . . . in Woodland . . ."

" . . . cab driver called 911 . . ."

"Woodland?" One word stood out amid the jumble. His anger blazed hot and fast. "What was she doing in Woodland in the middle of the night?" He rounded furiously on Sweets. "I told you to talk to her!" he accused as he jabbed his index finger in the younger man's chest.

"I did!" Sweets threw up his hands immediately. "I tried - you know how she -"

"Temperance Brennan?"

The softly accented words sucked the air from the room. As one, they turned toward the door.

The surgeon stood waiting for an acknowledgment of his question. He wore faded medical scrubs and mesh booties over his shoes, his face tired and drawn above the white mask that hung loosely beneath his chin.

Cam finally stepped forward. "Yes?"

"Dr. Brennan came through surgery as well as could be expected," he announced somewhat vaguely. "We'll know more if . . . when she regains consciousness." He considered his next words carefully. "Does anyone know if she has a living will or if there is someone who has the authority to make medical decisions on her behalf?"

"Oh, no." Daisy's whisper floated in the air as she sank down on one of the uncomfortable sofas.

A dread-filled moment of silence enveloped the room.

"_A __member __of __your __family __should __have __this __responsibility__, __Booth__," Brennan __argued__. "__Jared __or__ -"_

"_You__'__re __my __partner__, __Bones__. __If __something __goes __wrong__ . . ." __His __words __faded __away__. "__I __trust __you __to __make __the __right __decision__."_

"_Well__, __then__," __she __answered__, "__I __would __like __to __ask __you __to __do __the __same __for __me__. __After __all__," __she __added__, "__if __I __am __injured __to __that __extent__, __there __is __a __great __probability __it __will __happen __in __the __course __of __one __of __our __investigations __so__ -"_

"_That__'__s __because __you __never __listen__," __he __shot __back__. "__What __do __I __always __say__? __Gun __first__, __right__? __Gun __first__! __If __you__'__d __just __remember __that __once __in __a __while__ . . ."_

"I . . . I do," Booth barely heard his own voice over the roaring in his ears. He felt every eye in the room focus on him. He looked at Cam. "I . . . she . . . I . . . I have . . . I have hers we exchanged . . . when I had the brain tumor . . ."

His explanation was a disjointed rush of words that made sense only because everyone else in the room knew his history and connection with Brennan.

Except one. "You had a brain tumor?" Hannah stared at him in surprise.

Booth didn't ignore her question – in truth, he never heard it. "Why?" he addressed the doctor.

Again, there was a moment of silence. "With a head injury like the one Dr. Brennan has suffered, we won't know if there is long-term or permanent damage until she regains consciousness. It's best to be prepared in case she doesn't -"

The physician stood three steps away. Booth crossed the space in one giant leap as rage swept through him in a tidal wave, electrified by a spear of agony that pierced through to his very soul. With his hands fisted in the thin material of the olive scrubs, he lifted the diminutive physician to the tips of his toes and shook him. "You will not let her die," he ordered through bared teeth, his voice a low, menacing growl. "Do you hear me?"

"Seeley!"

Hannah's shocked gasp was lost in a loud, broken sob that burst from Angela before she buried her face in Hodgins' shoulder.

"Booth." Cam stepped up beside him and rested a gentle hand across the hard knots of his fingers. "They are doing everything they can for her. Dr. Kao is one of the best surgeons in the District." She kept her voice soft and even and deliberately calm as she spoke to him. "Seeley."

His eyes met hers and the pain and terror she saw there filled her own with tears.

"_You__'__re __in __love __with __Dr__. __Brennan__." _The memory flashed between them in an instant.

"Cam . . ." His voice was barely audible and thick with the tears he'd so far managed not to shed.

"I know." She swallowed over the obstruction in her throat and struggled for her own composure. "I know." Slowly, carefully, she peeled his fingers away from the doctor's scrubs.

On his feet again, the doctor skittered back immediately and turned to leave. Booth was at his heels.

Dr. Kao stopped. "I'm sorry," he shook his head. "I can only allow family -"

Booth loomed threateningly over the much smaller man. "I am her family," he bit out harshly.

"He . . . he . . . he is." Angela's raw, broken voice came from behind them. Eyes swollen, her face ravaged by tears and grief, she clutched at Hodgins. "He is," she repeated. "He's . . . he's . . ." She swallowed and lifted her chin stubbornly. "He's her husband. He is. He is. He is." She nodded repeatedly and pressed closer to her own spouse. "You have to let him go with her," she insisted as she began crying anew. "You have to let him go with her."

Booth's jaw clenched hard enough to fracture teeth but he didn't challenge her words.

Nor did anyone else.

With one swift glance around the room, Dr. Kao read the lie for what it was. One hesitant look directly at Booth, and he let it stand.

"This way." As the two men left, he began a rambling description of the long list of Brennan's injuries. Gradually, his voice faded away.

The waiting room fell silent.

"I'm sorry." Her voice barely above a whisper, Angela looked toward Hannah without meeting her eyes. "I'm sorry," she sniffed, "but she . . . she shouldn't be alone." Hodgins pulled her close and murmured in her ear, his hands stroking up and down her arms. "She shouldn't be alone if . . ." Her shoulders hunched as if she'd taken a punch. "Someone should be with her if she . . ." Unable to continue, Angela covered her face with her hands and wept loud, noisy tears.

Hodgins gathered her more fully into his arms and sat down with her pulled across his lap.

"Yes, of course." Hannah nodded quickly. "Of course, you're right - they're so close, it . . . he was very worried about her." She cleared her throat and nodded again. "She should have someone with her - until her real family can get here."

Angela lifted her head then, and stared at Hannah with something close to hate. The moment was gone almost instantly, however; with a weary sigh, she burrowed closer to Hodgins.

"Well," Cam's voice broke into the silence that followed. "I think I'll try to hunt up some coffee. Would anyone else care for some?"

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**I know I probably just broke about a hundred HIPAA laws there, so if you guys could just do that fanfiction hand/wave thing? That would be great. **

**And hey, it's after midnight on the East Coast so it's officially _Bones_-day! Who's ready for a ghost story? :-)  
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**Thanks for reading!  
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	3. Through Empty Fears

_**AN: Confession - until this story, I had deliberately avoided writing "partner in peril" fics and judging by the struggle I had with this chapter, that was a wise decision on my part. There's a fine line between creating drama and dipping into melodramatic soap opera-ish-ness and I've gotta be honest, I'm still not sure I stayed on the correct side of that line. Writing, rewriting, editing, deleting, putting back in what I'd just deleted, would he cry, would he not cry . . . *sigh* Uncle. I give up. I do funny, people. Funny and silly and fluffy. This is none of that. So, it is what it is. If you get a whiff of cheese, I can only hope that you'll stick a clothespin on your nose and come back anyway to read the rest of the story. **_

_**Charging forward . . .  
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Somewhere along the vast network of his nervous system, in the millions of electrical charges that sent impulses of thought and awareness speeding toward the correct processors in his brain, Booth knew the surgeon was speaking. He saw Dr. Kao's lips moving. He watched them form words. He even occasionally recognized one or two.

But not one in ten made it past the jumbled swell of sound in which he walked.

Instead, terrified of what waited for him, hypersensitive to his environment and surroundings, every other sound was magnified and enhanced in a jangled surge of noise that swirled around him violently, tangled in confusion, beating at his subconscious.

The physician's rubber-soled shoes squeaked against the polished linoleum floor.

A printer at the nurses' station began to hum.

From an unnaturally quiet room, an IV monitor beeped a warning.

He tried to gather his scattered thoughts . . . pretended to listen . . . tried to focus . . . They passed a small group of nurses gathered near a bank of elevators who fell silent and eyed him appreciatively as he followed at the doctor's heels. One of them joked, "Dibs on whatever patient he's here to see," and he flinched as the light notes of their teasing laughter landed on his skin like barbs.

The hallway grew longer and longer with each step. He was aware of every breath he took, he felt the rush of blood through his veins . . . he counted every thumping beat of his heart.

A young woman stumbled out of a doorway and threw herself into the arms of a drawn, sad faced old man who slumped against the wall. "He's gone, Dad. He's gone," she sobbed.

Her grief cut through the wall of his own and almost knocked him to his knees. He was saved by Dr. Kao, who chose that moment to stop in front of a partly open door.

"I'll be out here if you have any questions." The physician spoke in a low, quiet voice to the much bigger man beside him who, despite his size, suddenly appeared almost fragile. He felt an unfamiliar urge to offer comfort. "Her physical injuries . . ." He stopped, then began again. " Despite their appearance, her physical injuries will heal, given time. She is breathing on her own, and that's a good sign."

Booth nodded, offered an automatic whispered "Thanks" that he didn't even notice, and put his hand on the door.

One step inside and his breathing was reduced to short, quick pants of air as he struggled for control. "Bones . . ." The words escaped in a harsh, broken rasp. "Bones . . . Baby, look at you."

Lying outside the heavy white hospital blanket, her left leg was encased in a thick white cast from foot to mid-thigh. The arm that lay above it was taped securely to a padded splint, with her index and ring fingers separately bound. Ropes of gauze were wrapped around her head and below that, the skin on the right side of her face was scraped raw and red, covered in ointment tinted pink by blood that still oozed from the wounds.

"Bones . . ."

He shuffled closer, his feet heavy and awkward, as he stared at her with horror. Her bed was surrounded by machines . . . it seemed to him as if hundreds of miles of tubes ran from her body to the IV poles that stood like sentries behind her. Her lower lip was split and swollen, a small strip of fabric held a gash on her chin closed, another bandage stretched above her eyebrow, more scrapes and bruises scattered over her right arm - there seemed to be no part of her exposed to his view that had been left uninjured.

"God . . ."

He pulled the one chair in the small room as close to the right side of the bed as his knees would allow and reached out. His hand hovered in the air . . . where could he touch her? His fingertips brushed delicately against her side - he recognized the feel of the bandages that wrapped around her ribs and withdrew with a sharp gasp. Finally, he lifted her relatively uninjured hand carefully between both of his and, eyes closed, his elbows resting on the bed in a pose of prayer, brought her fingertips to his lips.

When his eyes opened again, he noticed the nail of her middle finger was broken to the quick . . . and the fragile thread that held his self-control in check snapped. He pressed her hand against his jaw and allowed the tears to fall.

"What were you doing out there, Bones?" he whispered as his eyes traveled over her from head to toe. "What were you doing? Why didn't you call me?" He pressed his lips into her palm. "I would have been there . . . I would have gone with . . ."

With infinite gentleness he touched her face. "It's going to be okay, okay? You're going to be fine. You're gonna be fine. It's going to be fine." He nodded as he spoke, unaware of the words he used, his attempt as much to reassure himself as to comfort her.

He let his fingers brush carefully against her ear lobe, aware as he did so that beneath the bandages wrapped around her head, her hair had been cut away from that part of her scalp. "You just have to wake up, alright? You have to wake up. You can't -" His jaw clenched hard. "I don't give you permission to let go, Bones - you hear me?"

He clasped her hand again between both of his and resisted the urge to squeeze hard. "You can hear me, I know you can hear me." He spoke with his lips against her fingers. "You hear me, don't you, baby?" His eyes closed as pain burst out in a torrent of words. "Stay with me, Bones, stay with me. I can't let you go. I can't let you . . . I know it hurts, it's going to hurt . . . I know . . . I'll help, I promise. I'll be here, I'm not going anywhere, I promise. Stay with me, Bones. Stay with me. Don't leave me."

"Don't leave me."

He didn't know how long he'd been sitting there, holding her hand, whispering to her and to himself, when a nurse appeared in the doorway.

"Sir?" Her voice was quiet and gentle. "I'm sorry but you'll have to go back to the waiting room now. We'll let you know if -"

"No."

"I'm sorry? I didn't -" Her face reflected her confusion at his response.

"No." His eyes blazed as he glanced up briefly.

She shook her head. "Sir, I know this is a difficult time but the hospital has -"

"I'm not going anywhere." His voice was hard and uncompromising.

"But . . ." The young woman lifted her chin then disappeared from the doorway. She was back within minutes, an older stern-visaged nurse at her side.

"Sir, you will have to return to the waiting room now." The older woman's tone was decidedly less hesitant.

"No."

Her shoulders heaved as she gave an exasperated huff. "I understand how you feel -"

"I'm not leaving her."

"Sir, I'm sorry. I am, but we have rules that have to be followed. I don't want to bring in security but -"

His head lifted, his eyes bored hot into hers. "You'll need more than one."

Taken aback by his implacable stance, the two women exchanged a startled glance before the older nurse spun on her heel and left the room, followed quickly by the other.

Alone again, Booth lifted Brennan's bruised fingers to his lips once more. "I'm not going anywhere, Bones. I promise," he whispered.

He didn't see the confrontation in the hallway between the two nurses and the surgeon, who was still outside reviewing Brennan's chart, or the final, defeated gesture Dr. Kao made toward her room.

He just knew he wasn't leaving Brennan alone.

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Hours later he dozed off fitfully, hunched over the hospital bed, his head resting on the bend of one elbow, his other hand still holding hers. He came awake with a startled jerk at the feel of a gentle touch on his shoulder.

Max stood beside him, staring down at his daughter with wet eyes. "Ahhh, Tempe." He was drawn and grey and looked every one of his sixty-plus years. Booth covered the age-spotted hand on his shoulder with his own. "Look at my little girl, Booth."

"She's going to be okay, Max," Booth whispered, his sleep-roughened voice made darker by the effort to keep his emotions in check. "She'll be fine. You'll see."

Max nodded. "They said . . . has she woken up yet? Has she said anything?"

Booth didn't trust himself to speak for a moment. "Not yet," he answered, finally. "She will, though. She will."

The faded blue eyes traveled over Brennan's injuries. "What if . . . If she doesn't . . . I don't think I could -"

"She's going to make it, Max," Booth vowed. "You know Bones, she fights everything. She'll make it." He stood up and the two men embraced. "She will," Booth repeated as his hand patted Max's back. "You'll see. She'll come through this."

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_**Happy thoughts: fluffy bunnies and Julie Andrews songs and baby giggles and cotton candy so sweet it makes your teeth hurt.  
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_**And chocolate. And sex.  
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	4. You Can Live Your Alibi

_**AN: If you're new to my fanfiction, you should know that all of my stories live together in a big castle in the corner of Hart Hanson's sandbox and sometimes, the characters wander into other rooms. If I write an OC as if you should already know him or her, it's because that person was introduced elsewhere.  
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_**(Lisa, this chapter is for you. I know you've missed him. :-D)**_

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At first, no one noticed the young man who stepped off the elevator late the next afternoon. It was a busy hospital, after all, bustling with medical personnel, hospital staff, patients and visitors. When he paused briefly to study the area, carefully noting the locations of stairways and exits and security cameras, no one paid attention. Those in the waiting room, huddled together in the shared solidarity of grief and fear, were unaware of him carefully scanning and memorizing their faces. Of average height and average age, dressed carefully in faded jeans and a battered leather jacket, with a baseball cap pulled low over his forehead, he was intentionally forgettable. Deliberately unremarkable.

That is, until he crossed to the nurses' station and asked to be directed to Temperance Brennan's room.

The nurse was used to speaking in a voice pitched to carry over the noise of the waiting room and her response caught the attention of the group seated closest to the desk. "I'm sorry, Ms. Brennan's visitors are restricted. If you'd like to join the others," she waved behind him, "I'll let you know when someone is allowed back there."

"I'm actually here to see her father," he corrected what was an easy assumption to make. "Would it be possible to get a message to him, ask him to come out for a minute?" She nodded and picked up the phone while behind him, heads turned toward Russ, who rose to his feet immediately.

When Harland turned around, he found himself the object of curious scrutiny.

"You're here to see my dad?" Russ asked as he stepped forward and introduced himself. "Russ Brennan."

"I know who you are." He set the heavy fabric bag he carried on the floor and leaned easily against the desk. "You look like a Keenan."

At his words, curiosity turned into suspicion for at least one person. Lips pursed, one eyebrow lifted high on her forehead, Caroline Julian studied the stranger openly, angling her head to get a better look at the face shadowed beneath the hat's brim.

Russ frowned, his confusion obvious. "Do I know you?" he asked. "I didn't catch your name -"

"Max!" Their exchange was interrupted by Angela's exclamation as she rushed to his side. "How is she? Has anything happened? Is she awake yet?"

The old man threw an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. "No, sweetheart, not yet." He looked weary and heartsore as Angela slumped at his response. "Why don't you go and keep Booth company for a few minutes?" he suggested, with a peck of his lips at her temple and an attempt at a smile. "He could use a prettier face than mine around him, I think." While she looked around for approval from the nurse, he deliberately stepped between Russ and Harland and with a hand on the other man's shoulder, herded him away from the assembled group. "I didn't expect you so soon. Let's take a walk."

"Dad -"

"It's okay, Russ." He patted his son's arm as they passed by. "Everything's fine."

Watching the two men walk to the elevator, Russ didn't look convinced. Noticing the manner in which the younger man kept his body at an angle to the security camera, Caroline looked downright grim.

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Harland waited until the elevator doors closed before he spoke. "How's your girl?"

Max shook his head, his face hard. "I'm almost glad she hasn't woken up yet. At least the way she is, she's not in any pain."

That was the end of any conversation until they left the hospital. By unspoken mutual consent, the two men kept walking until they were several feet away from the building, in the middle of two rows of parked cars.

"Well?" Max asked when they came to a stop.

Harland pulled a folded sheet of paper out of his coat pocket. "That's the man who hit her. Gangbanger," he shrugged. "Stolen car. I found it in a chop shop in Baltimore. I . . . rescued it," he added with a smirk, "and had it moved it to a more secure location."

Max opened the page and read the information silently.

"You want me to have that taken care of?"

Max considered the calmly-voiced offer for a moment. "No," he said finally, releasing his breath with a deep sigh and a shake of his head. "No. I'll turn it in." He laughed without amusement. "An anonymous tip or something."

Harland stared in disbelief. "Turn it in? To the police?" he asked. "That's your daughter in there." His head jerked in the direction of the hospital. "You don't know if she's going to live or die and he's -" he jabbed a finger toward the paper in Max's hand, "responsible. You're going to give him to the cops?"

"Yes, I am." Max said fiercely. He fixed his jaw and stared into the incredulous grey eyes stubbornly. "I'm going to handle this the way Tempe would want it handled."

The younger man looked ready to argue further, then abruptly let it go. "Your call," he shrugged.

"Yes, it is," Max snapped.

"Mama sent food." Harland suddenly remembered the bag that dangled from his fingertips. "There's plenty there," he said, as he handed it over. "Enough for you . . . and the federal," he added with a grimace.

Max slipped two fingers through the handles and offered a tight smile. "Booth's a good man."

"Eh." Harland obviously disagreed but chose not to press the issue. "She doesn't get her Tupperware back," he nodded toward the bag, "I have permission to shoot you."

Max laughed then, with the first real touch of humour he'd felt in two days. "Then I'll make sure I return it. Tell Minnie I said thanks."

"I will." Harland patted his shoulder. "Anything else we can do, you just get word to Keith."

He was only a few steps away when Max's voice stopped him.

"Harland."

He turned back immediately. "Yea?"

Max stared at the paper in his hand for a moment and then crushed it in his fist. "If Tempe -" He broke off as grief threatened to overwhelm him. "If she doesn't -" He couldn't continue.

He didn't have to.

Harland nodded. "I'll do it myself." With a wave of his hand, he walked off into the night.

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Max took a minute longer to compose himself before he went back inside the hospital. He went straight to the waiting room.

"This is the guy who hit Tempe." He held out the crumpled sheet of paper for Caroline. "Anonymous tip. Where you'll find the car, too."

Caroline stared at the mess he'd made of the note and then pointedly looked behind him toward the empty doorway. "Anonymous tip," she sniffed in disbelief.

Max remained silent.

"Hmpf." Eyes rolling, she snatched the paper from him. "Given what happened the last time your children were threatened," she reminded him in arch tones, "is this person alive or dead?"

His expression haunted, Max looked over his shoulder, down the hallway toward the room where his daughter lay. "He's alive." When his eyes met hers again, the words _for now_ rang in the silence between them.

Caroline pushed herself out of the chair with a huff. "You're trying my last nerve, Max Keenan," she warned as she hunted for her phone. "And I didn't have that many to start with." Her grumbling could clearly be heard as she stomped out into the hallway. "_Anonymous tip. The man must think I'm a damn fool._ Hello? Hello? This is Caroline Julian . . . ."

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_**(Harland was introduced in my summer hiatus fic **_**Once Upon a Summer._ I love him and I couldn't resist _**_**giving him a bit of a prequel role here. You don't fuck with Max Keenan's kids, even accidentally.)**_

_**Thanks for reading!  
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	5. One Thing That Won't Change

_**AN: Sometimes, you just have to click your heels three times, whisper "I hope this works," cover your eyes and hit publish.**_

_**So . . . click, click, click . . . I hope this works.  
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Fate had a sense of humor and when Camille Saroyan saw the beautiful blonde approach the hospital at the same time she herself reached the entrance, she knew it was having a good laugh at her expense. _Dammit__,_ she thought, even as she offered what she hoped was a bright smile. _I __knew__ I __should __have __taken __the __afternoon __and __let __Angela __come __this __morning__. _"Hannah! How nice to see you. You're . . . very early." The automatic doors opened with a soft whirr of sound, welcoming the two women into the warmth of the lobby.

Hannah glanced at the black duffel bag she held. "I brought some things for Seeley. I thought, maybe if I got here before anyone else . . ."

"Ahh, yes, well, that was an excellent plan," Cam nodded. She moved a few feet away from the doorway, out of the flow of foot traffic. "I'm sure he'll be glad to see you."

"I've stopped by a couple of times," Hannah said quickly, "but there were always so many people hoping to see Temperance that I never actually got back there to see him . . . her."

"There have certainly been a lot of people here," Cam admitted, her smile firmly fixed. "I've only managed one short visit with Dr. Brennan myself, and that was because I pulled rank. Of course, they were only allowing one person at a time . . . Well, two," she amended without thinking. "But Booth refused to leave so . . ." Her voice trailed away. _Well, that was tactful. _

There was a brief, awkward pause. "He's very concerned about her." Hannah's lips curved in a tight smile.

"He is!" Cam agreed immediately. "He certainly is." _Concerned? A__re __you really that __blind__?_

"I think he just hates seeing someone he cares about in the hospital," Hannah continued. "When I was shot, I practically had to force him to go home every night."

For a moment, Cam could only stare at the other woman. _Really__? __That__'__s __how __you __remember __that__?_ "I know," she said aloud. "He was . . . almost frantic." _You're going to hell, Camille. _"Why don't we go on up?" she suggested quickly, in a hurried attempt to leave that subject behind. "Since we're here . . . together . . . now . . ."

"Yes!" Hannah nodded eagerly. "Maybe at this hour, it will just be the two of us!"

_Dear God, please no._ "That would be . . . quite the bit of luck," she managed. When Hannah immediately turned to the elevators along the right wall, Cam reached for her arm. "No, they moved her last night - she's in the south tower now so we need to use those elevators." She pointed to the left.

Hannah followed the direction of Cam's finger. "Oh. I wasn't aware . . ."

"Well, it was the end of the day," Cam rushed to explain. "It was late - a last minute thing, really . . ." _Why __is __she __looking __at __me __like __that__?_ "She's closer to the nurses' station now, there's a window . . . the room is larger." _Why are you __babbling?_ "Honestly, I think they just got tired of stepping on Booth -" _See what happens when you babble? _"You know . . . he's been sleeping in a chair . . ." _Stop__. __Talking__._ "But this room has a sofa . . . the arms and the back fold down so . . . it's a bed . . ." _Oh, God. Maybe if I call Angela she'll come over right now . . . _

Hannah's eyes were wide and bruised. "Well . . . it's nice that he'll be more comfortable."

_Why do __I __feel __like __I __just __kicked __a __puppy?_ "Yes, he'll . . . rest much easier."

For a moment, the only sound was the echo of their heels tapping against the floor as they crossed together to the elevators.

"So," Hannah finally broke the silence. "Temperance is conscious now? Is that why they moved her?"

Cam shook her head. "No," she sighed. She jabbed roughly at the call button, then crossed her arms tightly across her chest. "No, she hasn't -" She drew in a deep breath. "Not yet."

"Oh!" The elevator arrived, disgorging several passengers, and for a few minutes, conversation lapsed. "That's not a good sign, is it?" Hannah continued once they were on their way up. "I mean, it's been four days."

"Don't let Booth hear you say that," Cam sent a sharp look at her companion. "He'll . . ." _Go __ballistic__. Lose his mind. Threaten to shoot the next person who suggests the possibility. Yell at you to go back to dead bodies since you obviously don't know anything about the living._ "He doesn't agree. He says that her mind has temporarily shut down in order to give her body more time to heal."

"Oh." Hannah hesitated for a moment. "What do you think?"

"I . . . don't know." _I __don__'__t __know__._ "Her pupils react to light, she responds to pain and pressure in her extremities . . ." She shrugged. "He's correct in that sometimes, the body has its own way of healing . . ." _It __will __destroy __him __if __she doesn't survive._ "I've made the mistake of underestimating Dr. Brennan before so," Cam plastered what she hoped was a positive expression on her face, "I'm going with Booth on this one."

Hannah nodded. "Well, then," she offered her own bright smile, "I will, too."

The doors opened on their floor, thankfully preventing the need for a reply. Trusting that Hannah would follow, Cam headed down the hallway.

_The one time I want to see a full waiting room and this is what I get? _Fisher was alone, stretched out over two chairs, casually flipping channels on the room's small TV. He stood up when the two women appeared. "All by yourself this morning, Mr. Fisher?" Cam stated the obvious.

"Dr. Brennan's father and her brother just went down to the cafeteria to get some breakfast," he explained. "I volunteered to stay here, in case anything happened. I find hospital Muzak relaxing."

_Of course you do. _"That was . . . very accommodating of you." She turned back to Hannah. "Well, clearly we don't have to wait for anyone else, if you'd like to see Dr. Brennan now?"

She led the way to Brennan's room, taking the opportunity as they walked to prepare Hannah for her appearance. "She actually looks a bit worse now, if you can believe it, because the superficial injuries are starting to heal - her bruises are darkening, the cuts and scrapes are scabbing over, etc. So just . . . be prepared," Cam warned. She came to a halt as a nurse in floral patterned scrubs stepped out of a room. Cam looked over the woman's shoulders to the privacy curtains that shielded the bed inside from view. "Would it be okay if we went in? We were hoping to see Dr. Brennan."

"Sure," the nurse answered. "Just give them a few minutes, if you don't mind. They're cleaning her up a bit, it won't take much longer." She reached over the counter behind them for a metal backed chart.

"Oh, in that case, maybe I could just find Seeley," Hannah suggested to Cam. "Do you know where he went?" she asked the nurse. "The guy who has been staying with Dr. Brennan?"

"I know who he is," the woman answered with a smile. "He's still in there with her," she added as she flipped a page and began to write. "He's helping."

"Helping?"  
"He's helping?"

Cam and Hannah spoke at once.

"mmmm hmmm." The nurse looked amused at their surprise. "Hey, stick around long enough and we'll put you to work, too," she laughed. "Actually," she continued, as she let the chart fall closed and leaned casually against the desk, "he really has been helpful. With him here, it only takes one of us to change her bedding, give her a bath, that kind of thing. We're always short-staffed so it's nice to free up a pair of hands." The nurse gestured to the observation window that made up one wall. "See? I told you it wouldn't be long. They're almost done."

The curtains were swept open with a screech of metal against metal as the nurse inside the room bunched the fabric in her hands and pushed them back along the ceiling track from which they hung. Booth stood beside the bed, Brennan cradled protectively in his arms.

_Oh, shit._

The nurse's scrubs were as bright as the cheerful prattle of conversation she kept up while she circled the narrow hospital bed, her movements sharp and efficient as she quickly stripped it bare and remade it. Occasionally, the low murmur of Booth's voice responding to a remark or question reached the women watching outside.

Cam heard a sharp intake of breath and forced herself not to look at Hannah.

"It's so beautiful," their talkative companion murmured when Booth touched Brennan's forehead with his lips then tenderly rested his cheek in the same spot for several minutes while he swayed slowly back and forth. "Not that she's in here, of course," she added quickly, "but that kind of devotion. I've been married three times and I don't think all my husbands put together loved me as much as he loves her." She hugged the chart she held to her chest and sighed happily as she watched Booth's gentle handling of the woman in his arms. "Gives you hope, you know?" Then she wandered off, unaware of the carnage she left in her wake.

Cam closed her eyes in dismay. _I__'__ve __got __to __say __something__, __I __can__'__t __just__ . . ._

"I didn't know." Hannah's softly spoken whisper was barely audible. Her face was white, her eyes locked on the window. "About them," she continued, her voice trembling. "I knew there had been someone but I didn't know . . . I wouldn't have followed him . . ."

_Goddammit._

"Hannah, they didn't know." Cam tried to offer what comfort she could, even as she knew it wasn't enough. "They didn't, not in any way that either of them ever acknowledged." _What can I say to a woman whose only mistake was in not being the right woman? _"There was nothing - there was never anything." _How do I explain a relationship that never was and at the same time, was always so much more? _"There was a time, a couple of years ago, I thought maybe they would . . . I don't know, that something would . . . but nothing ever happened. Nothing ever happened."

Hannah continued to watch Booth and Brennan. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears.

"You made him happy, Hannah." Cam touched the other woman's arm with a gentle hand. "You did. He was happy with you," she repeated. "And he loved you," she insisted. "He did. You have to believe that. He loved you."

"But not like that."

Cam followed Hannah's gaze to see Booth and the nurse working together to resettle Brennan in bed. While the nurse checked the IVs and other tubes, Booth cupped Brennan's cheek delicately and leaned in close to whisper words only he heard.

Cam's shoulders sagged in defeat. "I don't think two people out of a hundred find love like that." She allowed herself a moment to compare her own life with the image in front of her and then deliberately set it aside. "But that doesn't mean he didn't -"

The space beside her was empty, except for a black duffel bag on the floor.

Inside the hospital room, Booth drew the nurse's attention to the bandage on Brennan's head.

Cam watched for a minute longer. "Wake up, Brennan," she said aloud. "Wake up. And this time, you two get it right."

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_**And now I await the judgment of history . . . or in this case, reviewers. **_


	6. Will You Still Hear My Voice

_**People! Do you know how many reviews that last chapter had? A lot! Look what you did - now, obviously, I'm terrified I'm going to fuck up the rest of this story! So what I need is for all of you to turn around and not look at me for the next three chapters, mmmmkay? That would be great, thanks. **_

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His world shrunk to the confines of a room 305 square feet in size.

Outside that space, Booth knew that life moved on. Inside, he ruthlessly divided everything that tried to lay claim to his attention into two categories.

_Now_ was Brennan, lying broken and fragile and unmoving. _Now_ was what he could do for her, what he could ensure others did for her. _Now_ was what directly affected her care. _Now_ was worry and fear lodged deep in his bones and _now _was the hard grit of determination and perseverance and above all, _now_ was faith. He believed. No matter how many days turned to night or how many nights ended in yet another morning, how many sad faces turned his way or how many not-so-subtle suggestions were made . . . he believed. _He __believed__. _That was now.

_After_ was everything else. Everything else could be dealt with _after__._

He learned the rhythms of life in a hospital. Without looking at his watch he knew when a nurse would appear at Brennan's side. He knew when shifts changed, when personnel changed, which staff were careful and sensitive in their care of her and who was less so and he made sure those in the latter group weren't allowed near her again.

He slept in blocks of two or three hours, his rest interrupted by the normal routine of work that never ended. No matter how quiet or how careful they all tried to be, he was awake and alert the instant anyone appeared, regardless of the hour.

He questioned everything, insisting on explanations for every test and blood draw and he kept asking until he understood the answers. He was annoying and intrusive and relentless and within just a few days, half of the staff hated him and the rest were falling in love with him. Dog-eared copies of Brennan's books circulated behind the nurses' station and when they realized "the real Andy" was among them, his all-consuming devotion to Brennan reached legendary status.

Food appeared before he knew he was hungry, warm plates and casseroles and bowls of soup brought to him with laughing excuses about too many leftovers and kids who wouldn't eat what was good for them and husbands with allergies. When special occasions were celebrated - and there was always a baby shower or birthday or retirement to be acknowledged - there was always something put aside for him.

His unwavering belief in Brennan's ultimate recovery became their own goal.

He was as constant and unchanging as the woman he watched over.

For everyone else, life returned to a variation of normal. Russ went home during the week and came back every weekend. Max came and went regularly, acknowledging without comment Booth's precedence in taking control of Brennan's care. Except for Angela, who had to be forced to leave each night, everyone visited regularly, clucked sympathetically, and then left.

Absolutely sure she would wake and determined to be beside her when she did, Booth stayed . . . and waited.

Occasionally life outside her room intruded, forced on him by friends and people who loved him, people who weren't afraid - much - of his bark and growl.

When Sweets showed up alone at the end of the first week, a thin folder in one hand, Booth was instantly suspicious. The psychologist's immediate inquiries as to Brennan's health and condition didn't soften the hard brown eyes that focused on him.

"What do you want, Sweets?"

The hesitation was brief but noticeable. "There's . . . something we need to discuss."

Booth turned his back immediately. "Go away. I don't need you shrinking me." He needlessly straightened the corner of one of the bed's waffle-weave blankets.

Sweets silently disagreed with that statement but made sure the thought wasn't reflected in his expression when Booth turned around. "That's not why I'm here." He held out the manilla folder. "I need your signature."

Booth stared at the file as if it were a snake about to strike. "On what?"

With a lift of his chin, Sweets metaphorically girded his loins and pushed on. "You're on an indefinite leave of absence. I took the liberty of presenting a psychological profile to Assistant Director Hacker qualifying your mental distress based on your relationship with Dr. Brennan. Because of her present condition . . ." He sighed and shrugged and waved a hand over his words. "I said a lot of shrinky stuff, the report was 11 pages long and he only read the first three paragraphs. But the result is," he lifted the file higher, "you're approved for a leave of absence and right now, it's covered by the sick leave you've accrued. And by the way," he added with a frown, "how did you manage to save that many hours? Do you know you have, like, six months of -"

"Gimme that." Booth jerked the file out of Sweets' hand. "And stay out of my personnel file." For the next few minutes, he carefully read over the forms. When he was done, he froze the other man in place with a glare. "I didn't ask you to do this."

Sweets refused to look away. "No, you didn't."

The staring contest lasted only a few seconds before Booth nodded. "Thank you," he acknowledged quietly. Pulling a pen from a Sudoku book, he scrawled his signature at the spots marked by bright green flags and handed the file back.

"You know," Sweets being Sweets couldn't stop there. "If you do want to talk we can always -"

"Make sure I get a copy of that." With a rough grip on the other man's shoulders, Booth spun him around and pushed him roughly toward the door. "Bye."

"I'm available whenever -"

"Yea, I'll call you."

"I think it's important that you -"

"I'll get right on it. See ya."

Sweets backed up one step just as the door closed in his face. "Booth? Agent Booth?"

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Cards and letters came in, a few at a time and then by the dozens and hundreds as word of the accident became widespread and reached Brennan's fans. Flowers were distributed throughout the hospital, balloons and stuffed animals were sent to the children's ward - except for one animatronic skeleton which danced and sang _Dem Bones_ when a button under the foot was pressed. Angela insisted it would make Brennan laugh and so it stayed on the table beside her bed . . . waiting.

Angela handled the mail that came in. She carefully cataloged and dated every piece and then filled box after box after box, all stacked neatly in Brennan's office . . . waiting.

One afternoon, she hesitated in the doorway of the hospital room, that day's mail in a bag hanging from her wrist. She looked at Booth uncertainly. "I . . . I need to say something."

His shoulders dropped with disappointment. "You, too, Angela?" he asked sadly. It had been ten days and the chorus of well-meaning advice was beginning to get louder.

"No," she shook her head. "No, it's not about Brennan. I'm on your side, Booth," she insisted, "you know that. However long it takes." She bit her lip nervously. "It's just . . ."

"What?" He crossed his arms and stared at her.

"Well, it's the first of the month," she said. "I mean," she stammered uncomfortably, "it's a new month."

"I know what day it is," he retorted, his suspicion still obvious. "What do you want, Angela?"

She loosed a heavy sigh, then laid the bag of mail gently on the bed near Brennan's feet. "Okay, here's the deal. I'm not trying to get in your business, I promise," she told him, her hands thrown up palms out. "I'm not, but . . ." She paused briefly then finished in a rush of words. "Don't you have bills to pay?"

"What?" he asked again. His face registered confusion.

"Brennan has an accountant to handle the big stuff," Angela hurried to explain, "and I know she has a lot of things set up so they get paid automatically but I've been checking her mail anyway so if something does slip by I'll catch it . . ." Booth was staring at her as if she were speaking a language other than English. "It's not that you couldn't be that organized, too," she added quickly, "and maybe you are but if you aren't . . ." She shrugged. "I just thought you might be more, you know, old school about paying your bills and if you are, not that you couldn't be more organized than that, but if you are . . . well," she said again, "it's a new month."

Awkward now, and unsure of his reaction, she didn't give him a chance to respond. "It's just . . . I don't even know if you're thinking about it or if you have thought about it or . . . well, you're here with Brennan and . . . and you're here all the time, so . . . " She plucked at the fabric of the blanket next to the bag and avoided his gaze. "I just . . . I want to make sure you don't get evicted or anything because . . . you know, because you're here and . . . and you're not even thinking about . . . about your apartment . . . or anything . . ."

What she didn't say . . . what she didn't have to say . . . was that if Hannah were still in his apartment, she wouldn't have had to say anything at all.

Looking away from Angela, Booth's eyes fell on the black duffel bag and for a few seconds, the memory of Cam's cool recitation of Hannah's reaction to watching him with Brennan ran through his mind. He shook it off immediately and pushed the thought away. That was for _after_. He'd deal with that after Brennan woke up.

All too conscious of his silence, Angela babbled on. "I thought about, you know, just hacking into your account," she admitted, "and doing whatever I needed to do but I thought maybe I should ask first." She chanced a guarded look at him from beneath her lashes. "If you wanted to, you could make a list for me . . . anything I could take care of for you . . . I'd be happy to . . . If, you know, you wanted me to . . ."

He was touched beyond measure by her generosity and open heart. "Angela -"

"I need to do something, Booth!" The confession was pulled out of her and far from avoiding his eyes, she now looked at him with tears in her own. "I need to do something useful!" She waved a dismissive hand at the bag of mail. "That's just filing - I need to help!" She swiped in frustration at a tear that escaped. "You're taking care of Brennan and Jack is taking care of me . . . I feel like I'm surrounded by bubble wrap!" she exclaimed. "I need to help! She's my friend, too!" She looked at Booth as if she dared him to argue with her. "I love her as much as you do and if I . . . if I can't help her, I can help you! Please . . . let me help."

Booth pulled her into a hug. "Thank you for not hacking into my bank account," he whispered, laughing, into her hair while he patted her back in comfort.

She snorted once, weakly, before she laid her cheek against his chest and sobbed. "I feel so . . . overwhelmed!" she cried. "I wake up in the morning and the first thing I do is check to see if you called in the middle of the night - and I don't know whether to be happy or relieved that you didn't." Her tears moistened his t-shirt. "I'm so afraid for her . . . all the time . . . and then I come here." She pulled back and looked at him. "And you're so strong and you're so _sure _and you just know . . . you just know," she repeated. "You just believe. And I feel better, because of you. I believe, because you do." She threw herself back into his arms. "I love you, Booth." She cupped his face in hers as she nodded repeatedly. "I do. As much as I love her."

"I love you, too, Ange." He blinked back his own tears and squeezed her again hard against his chest. "Keep believing, okay? She's going to be fine, I promise."

When she was composed again, he released her and reached for the notebook he used to document Brennan's care. Within minutes, he filled a blank page with his messy scrawl, ripped it free and handed it to her. "Buy yourself something pretty," he joked, as he added his bank card and a credit card.

"You better believe it, mister," she answered immediately, her mood brighter even if her face was still tear-stained.

After a moment's consideration, Booth removed a key from his fob and passed it to her as well. "The checkbook is in the kitchen, in the drawer beneath the microwave," he told her. "If you could make sure the fridge is empty, too, I'd appreciate it."

"Of course," she nodded. "Booth, I'm sorry about -"

He cut her off with a shake of his head. "The only thing that matters right now is Bones," he said. He gripped Brennan's fingers in his and stared down at her. "She's all that matters," he repeated.

.

.

The days faded one into the next, and then the next.

He waited . . . and never wavered.

On the 23rd day, he sat by her bedside as was his habit, her hand held carefully in his as he read the newspaper out loud. He turned the page and had just begun an article about the NHL All-Star game due to be played in a few weeks when her fingers flexed against the palm of his hand.

He squeezed back gently, accustomed after all this time to those small spontaneous spasms of movement, and kept reading. His voice came to an abrupt halt when her fingers applied a faint but noticeable answering pressure.

Heart pounding, he swiveled around to stare at her.

Her fingers brushed against his a third time.

Her lashes fluttered . . . parted briefly . . . closed.

He held his breath, afraid to speak.

A tiny sliver of blue appeared and disappeared . . . once . . . twice . . .

His breath came in quick short pants.

His mouth went dry.

He squeezed her fingers.

Her eyes opened again . . . her head turned by a fraction of an inch toward him.

She looked at him.

The skin on her lips clung together until the tip of her tongue appeared and parted them.

One puff of air.

One breath.

Silent, but he heard it as clearly as if the word rang down from the mountain top.

"Booth."

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**_Thanks for reading!_  
**


	7. Long After Tonight

_**You guys are awesome. Each one of you. Every time I open my email, it's like unwrapping a Christmas present. Thank you - very much. **_

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"Bones?" Her lashes drifted lower and finally lay in a dark, smudged crescent against her cheek. "Come on, baby, talk to me," he urged. "Bones?" His hand patted hers insistently. "Come on . . . one more time . . . open your eyes . . . open your eyes . . . Bones?"

He pushed back quickly from the bed and ran to the door. "She's awake! She -" The nurses' station was unattended. One quick glance over his shoulder told him Brennan still lay unmoving; he took two quick steps down the hallway to the right, changed his mind and rushed back the other way, searching for someone . . . anyone.

A group of three stood outside the door of a room just around the corner. "She's awake!" he yelled when he saw them. "She just talked to me - she said my name! She's awake!" Without waiting for their reaction, he turned and hurried back the way he'd come.

They were at his heels, followed by more personnel as heads poked out of doorways at the sound of his shouted revelation. In Brennan's room, he was pushed to the side as medical staff surrounded her bed.

"She's awake!" he insisted as he paced restlessly at the edges of the crowd. "She . . . she squeezed my fingers . . . and it wasn't one of those involuntary . . . she did it twice!" he added triumphantly. "No, no, it was three times. She grabbed my hand and she squeezed three times. Three times!" He wasn't sure anyone was listening to him but he kept on talking, persuading himself that what had just happened was real. "She looked at me - she opened her eyes and she looked at me and she said my name!" Through the shifting rainbow of uniforms, he caught glimpses of her lying there, unmoving once again. "She said my name," he repeated. "She said it. I heard it. She said my name! I heard her!"

Deborah, a carefully preserved nurse in her fifties who had taken a shine to Max, stepped away from the bed and, with a hand on his arm, stopped his frantic pacing. "Seeley -"

"She said my name," Booth insisted again. "She opened her eyes and she looked at me and she said my name. I heard her."

Deborah's smile was tender. "I believe you."

"Then why isn't she awake now?" His panicked eyes went from Brennan's form to the nurse. "I heard her!"

She rubbed small circles into his back and spoke to him in a calm, soothing voice. "This is not unusual at all," she said. "She's been unconscious for a long time -"

"Twenty-three days," he interrupted.

Deborah nodded. "Twenty-three days," she smiled. "It's only in the movies that people wake up and just jump out of bed right away. Seeley?" She counted the heavy breaths that lifted and lowered his shoulders as he watched Brennan and then, discreetly, let her hand slide down his arm until she could wrap her fingers around his wrist and feel his pulse. "Are you okay?" she asked softly. "Would you like me to get you something?"

"What?" Shocked, he pulled his eyes away from Brennan and stared at the nurse beside him. "What? No . . . no, I'm fine, I just . . . why isn't she awake? She said my name," he insisted again. "I heard her."

"This is not uncommon," she assured him. "In cases like these, often what we see is that patients surface slowly, for brief periods," she explained gently, "and those moments gradually become longer and longer. When she's able to communicate, we'll be able to assess any permanent damage -"

"She's going to be fine," Booth interrupted harshly, his eyes lit from within. "She's going to be fine."

"Of course," Deborah nodded. "Of course." He didn't see the teasing smile that she turned on him as the room began to empty of medical staff. "Maybe when she wakes up again, you could just press the CALL button? Instead of running through the halls yelling for someone?"

"Call button, right." The helpful nurse was dismissed from his mind before she ever left the room, as he pulled a chair close up beside the bed and reached for Brennan's hand. "I'll use the call button."

He watched her the way new parents studied their infants. He counted the breaths she took and the pulse of the heartbeats he could see on her neck, just below her ear. Her hand was in his, her fingers pressed against his lips . . . and he waited.

He didn't know how much time had passed when she frowned and then whimpered with pain. He whispered her name.

The muscles in her throat worked as she tried to swallow and then the dark soot of her lashes lifted with a flutter and once again, her head turned ever so slightly toward him.

He dropped his head weakly as he prayed aloud. "Thank You." When his eyes opened they were immediately snagged by hers.

" . . . here." He had to lean in close to hear what little bit of voice she had.

"Of course I'm here," he choked out, as tears made waves of her face. "Where else would I be?"

Another tiny mewl escaped. " . . . hurts," she managed, as she tried to lick dry lips.

"I'll fix that," Booth answered immediately. "I'll take care of it." He remembered the CALL button then and released her hand long enough to grab for it and press it a million times before letting it swing free again. When her throat worked convulsively again, he picked a piece of ice out of his drink and used it to moisten her lips. "There. Better?"

"Well, look who's here!" Deborah's cheerful voice intruded on the moment. "And don't you just have the prettiest blue eyes, now that we can see them open." She bustled around the bed, taking Brennan's vitals.

"She's in pain," Booth told her roughly. "Do something about it."

"Of course, sweetheart, I'll call the doctor right away." Deborah smiled at Brennan from the foot of the bed. "Do you know your name, honey?" she asked with a smile. "Can you tell me what your name is?"

Booth once more held Brennan's right hand between both of his, convulsively squeezing then patting it, then pressing his lips to the palm while he watched her. She frowned again, fighting to keep her eyes open before she found Booth.

There was a small movement that might have been a nod. "Bones," she whispered. He felt her hand squeeze his. " . . . Bones."

He laughed and kissed her fingers again. "Yea, that's right," he told her as he tried to blink back the onslaught of tears. "You're Bones."

"That's a good girl,' Deborah chirped in her relentlessly happy tone. "Now what about your real name? Do you know what that is?"

There was a moment of no response and then Brennan's eyes widened fearfully. Her head shook with tiny movements. "I . . . I don't . . ." She focused on Booth, her face panicked and scared. " . . . can't . . ." Tears formed; one silver drop slipped out and began a slow journey toward her ear. "I . . ."

"Shhhh! Shhhh, baby, it's okay," Booth was immediately beside himself. "Don't cry, honey, don't cry, it's okay." He glared at Deborah, furious that she'd asked the question that caused Brennan's tears. "You're doing great, I promise," he murmured, one big hand cupping her cheek, wiping away the moisture. "It's okay, it will all come back to you. It will. I swear. Don't cry, baby, don't cry."

"He's right, sweetheart." Deborah patted Brennan's right foot. "You've got plenty of time, don't you worry about it. Now, I think I'll just go see if we can get you something for that pain, okay?"

They ignored her leaving. "I can't . . ." Brennan managed brokenly, fighting back tears and weariness as her eyes began to close again compulsively. " . . . don't go . . ."

"I'm not going anywhere," he promised again and again. "I'll be right here, I promise." As she drifted off once more into sleep, he leaned over and pressed his lips against her forehead, and stayed there with his own eyes closed. "It's going to be okay, I promise. I promise."

.

.

He fell asleep himself, hunched over the bed beside her as he'd done the first night he'd spent at her side. A hand landing awkwardly in his hair woke him up. When his head lifted, she was looking at him.

"Temperance." Her voice was low and rough from long disuse. " . . . name . . . Temperance . . . Brennan."

His smile was wide and beautiful. "Yes, it is."

"Brother . . ." she continued, and the determined, focused look he remembered so well was back in her eyes. "Russ."

"Yea." He was so proud of her, he thought his chest might explode with it.

"Mother . . ." She shook her head.

He nodded, and waited.

"Father. Matthew . . ." She frowned. " No . . ." Her eyes searched his. "Max . . . Max," she repeated.

He could see the struggle as she searched for the rest of her father's name.

" . . . can't . . ."

"It's okay," he laughed softly. "He only needs one name anyway." He brought her hand to his lips again.

Brennan curved her fingers around his jaw. "Seeley."

"Well, now you're just showing off," he teased, but it was an effort to get the words past the rush of love and relief that threatened to overcome him.

She smiled back at him, and fell once more into sleep.

.

.

.

He held them all at bay with his back to the closed door. "Alright, before you go in, there are some rules," he told them firmly. He'd guarded her fiercely for the two days that had passed since she'd regained consciousness; despite their vocal opposition, he refused to allow anyone to see her while she struggled to recall basic memories and skills. He gave in now only because he feared a mass invasion if he didn't.

"She's my daughter!" Max argued loudly.

"And if you want to see her right now you'll shut up and listen!" Booth shot back. Mouth clamped, clearly irritated, Max backed down reluctantly.

"First, she tires very easily. She can only handle about ten minutes and then she starts to drop off, and when that happens, you're gone. No arguments. Got it?" He waited for a nod from each of them before continued.

"She may not remember your name right away and if she doesn't," he glared at them all, "you will not make a big deal about it. Understand?"

"No hugging," he added severely. "Her arm and leg are still messed up so don't touch her. And don't mention the stitches in her head or that half her hair is gone."

He pointed a long finger at Angela. "Don't go in there crying, either. You'll just upset her."

Angela bounced on her toes in anticipation. "Okay already! Okay! Can we see her now?"

He held up one finger, hit them with another silent blaze of warning from his hard stare, then twisted the other arm behind his back and opened the door. "Are you sure you're up for this, Bones?" he asked as he leaned inside, his formerly harsh tone now gentle and tender. "They can come back tomorrow -"

"Well, I'm not coming back tomorrow," Angela argued as she pushed her way past him. When she saw Brennan awake and alert, she immediately burst into loud tears. "Sweetie!" She ran to the right side of the bed and embraced her best friend tenderly. "Don't you ever do this to me again, do you hear me?"

Booth could only glower and grumble in disapproval as one by one - coworkers, interns, Sweets, Max - ignored his pointed lecture and approached Brennan for a careful hug or to touch her cheek with theirs. He leaned against the wall, one foot crossed over the other, arms folded across his chest and watched it all with a keen eye, alert for signs of fatigue or distress, ready at a moment's notice to boot everyone from the room.

"Ahhh, sweetheart," Max sat down in Booth's chair and held onto her hand. "It's so good to see you awake. You had us all so scared." He smiled, his happy relief obvious. "Russ will be back in a few days, too. He wanted me to tell you."

"That will be nice," she answered, her voice still weak and hesitant. "Booth told me he was here every weekend . . . while I was unconscious . . ."

"Three weeks." Max blinked back tears. "Three of the worst weeks of my life."

"Twenty-three days." Booth's voice drew their attention to him. His eyes were on Brennan. "If anyone was counting," he shrugged. The smile and wink he added was just for her.

"Did you know," Vincent Nigel-Murray's crisp British voice broke the moment of silence that followed, "the longest coma ever recorded was 37 years, 111 days?"

"Perhaps I regained consciousness too soon," Brennan said with a wobbly smile. "I feel as if I've underachieved."

Mouths dropped as every head turned toward her in surprise.

"I'm sorry." Her head dipped uncomfortably. "I shouldn't joke about -"

"No, honey," Angela reached out and rubbed her forearm. "It was funny! We're just not used to you being funny," she added with a laugh.

After a few moments of shared humour, Clark spoke.

"Do you know how much longer you'll have to stay here, Dr. Brennan?" he asked solicitously.

"No." She looked ruefully across her body. "I seem to have quite a few injuries so -"

"You broke your second toe." Booth pushed off from the wall and cut through the circle that surrounded her bed to stand at the foot, facing her. He looked at the offending limb and then sent a crooked smile toward her. "How does someone break their second toe?"

A frown momentarily creased her forehead before she smiled back. "Phalanges," she told him. "I broke a phalanx."

"No," he shook his head. "I said toe, not a finger."

"Toes are also phalanges," she informed him.

His eyes danced as he tried to appear unconvinced. "Are you sure about that?"

She hesitated briefly. Beside him, Booth heard Daisy take a breath and immediately kicked her in the shin. She winced, but got the message and stayed silent.

Brennan finally nodded. "Yes, I'm sure."

"Well, you also broke - what's that bone in your lower leg?" he asked casually. "Not the thin one but the big one."

She struggled for a moment before the information came back to her. "The tibia. Not the . . . the other bone is the fibula. You mean the tibia."

"Yea, that one," Booth nodded. "You have screws in that one. You're going to have fun at the airport from now on," he chuckled.

She didn't smile back. "Keep going," she whispered.

Beside her, Angela covered her mouth with one hand and reached for Hodgins' hand with the other as she struggled to control a fresh bout of tears.

It wasn't a game anymore, and as had happened so many times in the past, the rest of the room disappeared in their focus on each other.

"Knee."

"Patella," she responded.

"That's just bruised. Above that -"

She struggled for a moment. "Femur."

"Clean break," Booth told her. "A couple of inches above the knee. Then your wrist -"

"No," she interrupted, closing her eyes as she grasped for what she knew she knew. "Ilium," she said finally. "Sacrum. Pubis." If she had looked up at that moment, she would have seen her interns silently mouthing the words for her. "Coccyx." She raised her head triumphantly.

Everyone backed away as he stepped around the bed to her side. Max rose immediately from the chair. "You forgot one," Booth teased gently as he sat down and reached for her hand.

"I . . ." Brennan's eyes widened in distress for a moment and then cleared. "Ischium. Ischium!"

He nodded proudly; in the act of lifting her fingers to his lips, he paused and spread them apart with his own. "Now these," he murmured as he displayed them for her, "these are phalanges."

She laughed at his silliness, and they both jumped in alarm when the room erupted in applause. Brennan looked around the circle of people who surrounded her, at misty eyes and wide happy smiles, she saw the hugs they shared and the nods of approval directed toward her . . . and was suddenly overwhelmed and emotional.

"Thank you," she whispered as she fought to control the rush of tears that threatened. "I . . . I don't know . . . what . . ."

"Alright, that's it." Booth stood up and began pushing those close to him roughly toward the door. "She's had enough, everybody out." If someone resisted, he simply pushed harder. "Out."

"Maybe just me -" Max began.

"Out," Booth ordered. "I'll tell you when you can come back. Out."

Angela rushed back in to leave one more kiss on Brennan's cheek. "I love you, honey," she whispered. Booth hooked an arm around her shoulder and marched her back to the door. "I'll be out here when you're ready!"

"I'll let you know when she's ready," Booth growled, right before he closed the door on the crowd still trying to wave goodbye.

Then he turned back to Brennan, who was sinking into her pillow, and pulled the blankets up higher against her shoulders. She was asleep again before he sat down and, in a gesture that had become a reflex, reached for her hand.

"I thought they'd never leave."

.

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_**I love Booth and Brennan. I really do.**_

_**Thanks for reading!  
**_


	8. Will You Come Back to Me

She hated him.

"I hate you."

"I know," he answered, tightening his arm around her waist. "One more step."

"One more step?" Brennan stubbornly refused to move. "My room is at least 15 feet away," she complained, with a nod toward the end of the hallway. "If I take one more step are you going to then carry me?"

Booth ignored the biting sarcasm in her tone and shook his head. "Are you kidding?" he asked, with a comically fake sense of disbelief. "That cast weighs more than you do," he said, "especially now," he added significantly. "Come on," he urged again. "Baby steps."

It was a scene repeated daily. If he'd been annoying while she was unconscious, he was even more provoking during the process of her rehabilitation. He ordered her around mercilessly, bulldozing over her complaints during physical therapy, and pushed her to complete every exercise until she'd done exactly what was ordered. Only when he was satisfied with her effort did he allow himself to be solicitous and caring, fighting his natural inclination to hold at bay anything that caused her pain. When she snapped at him like a frustrated dog at the end of a leash, he either ignored her outbursts or prodded her further into a tension-relieving explosion. What he didn't do, what he couldn't do, was leave.

Brennan hated these short walks in the hallway most of all; used to a fit, active body and lifestyle, it was galling to face her physical weakness, to hobble pathetically, forced to lean on his strength for every inch of progress.

"No." She couldn't even stand still without sagging into his shoulder. "It hurts, Booth." Thrusting her chin forward, she refused to look at him as she blinked rapidly to avoid a sudden rush of tears. "It hurts. My leg hurts - my uninjured leg hurts! My arms hurt. My head hurts -"

"Do you feel dizzy?" he interrupted quickly, his eyes sharp as he looked her over.

"No," she admitted, "but - Yes!" She changed her mind abruptly, and snuck a peek at him from beneath her lashes. "Yes, I feel dizzy."

Relieved, he just laughed. "Too late," he said and squeezed her closer. "One more step."

"I'm tired," she sniffed so piteously he almost expected her to stomp her foot. "I don't want to do this anymore."

"You can't be tired." Booth hardened his heart and dismissed her words. "You slept for a month. One more step." He urged her forward. "Come on, Bones. Pretty soon you'll be able to run - we can race and I'll let you win."

"Let me w-" She shot him a narrowed-eyed gaze, fumed at her doorway and then hobbled forward resolutely.

He leaned close to her ear. "Good girl," he murmured with a smile.

She added another inch of progress. "I hate you."

"I know, baby." He pressed a quick kiss on her temple. "One more step."

Grumbling the whole way, she made it back to her room. He was getting her settled into bed when a young volunteer arrived with a covered tray. "Perfect timing, Bones!" he said cheerfully. "It's lunch time!" The girl blushed furiously when Booth graced her with a smile and dropped the plastic tray on Brennan's table with a clatter of silverware. He waved aside her apologies as he rolled the table across the bed. "Look here," he exclaimed as he lifted a plastic dome. "You've got . . . goop." He didn't even try to hide his grimace of distaste at the plain fare she'd been given.

Too busy watching Booth to pay attention to her exit, the young volunteer bumped into a nurse just entering the room and earned herself a scowl. While she beat a hasty retreat, the older woman held out a foil wrapped plate. "I know you aren't calling my pot roast 'goop,' Seeley," she joked as Booth took it from her hands gratefully.

"Definitely not, Alison." He lifted one corner of the foil and sniffed appreciatively. "Mmmmm, this smells great, thanks!" When he bestowed the same wide grin on the nurse, it was only the benefit of three more decades of age that stopped her from flushing as hot as the teenager who'd just left.

Brennan watched the interactions with an ill-natured scowl. When Alison finally giggled her way out and they were alone again, she poked at a bowl of steaming green . . . well, goop . . . with her spoon. "What did they do," she sneered as Booth lifted a full fork of beef and vegetables to his mouth. "Adopt you?"

He nodded as he chewed. "I think so," he said after he swallowed. "I haven't eaten this well since -" He considered a moment. "Well, ever." He filled another fork. "I may move in here," he added, only half joking, before he stuffed his mouth again.

"Yes, I'm sure the nurses here would be thrilled," Brennan muttered beneath her breath. When he looked over curiously, she threw the spoon down and crossed her arms in mutiny. "I don't want to eat this anymore."

Booth put down his fork and eyed her patiently. "Well, you have to," he told her, in the same tone of voice he used with Parker when the boy was on the verge of a tantrum. "Your body has to learn to process food again, in stages. They explained this to you, Bones."

"It's ridiculous."

Booth looked away to avoid laughing at her pouting face. "I tell you what," he offered, as he picked up his fork again. "You be a good girl and eat your . . . goop," he gestured toward her tray, "and when you can have real food, I'll bring you one of those plastic turkeys you like."

Her response was a huff of irritation and a roll of her eyes. "It's not plastic it's- Never mind." Disgruntled, she reached for the spoon. "There are other things I could eat now - grains, soft vegetables. The dietician here is very unimaginative."

He murmured in what he hoped sounded like sympathy and continued eating his own meal while Brennan, with obvious reluctance, picked at hers. Finally, she tossed the spoon away and gave the rolling table a shove for good measure.

She watched petulantly as he ate with relish before finally, she cleared her throat. "I need your assistance to get to the bathroom."

"Okay." Booth put aside the crossword puzzle book he'd just picked up and walked around to the other side of the bed to help her stand. He carefully supported her faltering steps as she made her way across the short distance. At the door to the small room, he stopped. "I'll be right here," he said as she closed it in his face. When she opened it again several minutes later, he was standing there, hands on his hips, glaring at her.

"What?"

He looked pointedly at the empty container in the toilet bowl and back at her. "I heard you flush, Bones. You know they're keeping track of that, so they can make sure your kidneys are -"

"I noted the volume first," she mumbled irritably, without quite meeting his eyes. He'd been intimately involved with every facet of her care, she knew that, but did he have to be so bloody blase' about it?

Booth shook his head. "I can't believe you, of all people, are embarrassed about a little pee." Velcro ripped from velcro when he detached the pen from the whiteboard on the inside of the door. "How much?"

She told him and when he raised his eyebrows, she lowered hers. "If you say 'good girl' again, I will hit you," she threatened ominously.

"Then I won't say it," he told her as he turned his back and jotted down the number. "Out loud," he added, making sure the words were loud enough to be heard.

Brennan slapped at his hand when he wrapped an arm around her waist to help her back to bed. A glance toward her reflection when they passed the mirror gave her a moment's pause.

Her fingers fluttered over the ragged edges of hair above her right ear as she turned her head to get a better view of her scar. "It's very unattractive, isn't it?" She wasn't aware that she'd spoken the words aloud until she heard her voice.

Booth watched her carefully. "It's not so bad," he disagreed gently. "You kinda have that Boy George look."

Their eyes met in the mirror. "Who is that?"

"Right," he drawled. "Just picture that hair and -" the fingers of one hand waved around his eyes, "a lot of eyeshadow."

Brennan frowned at her reflection while she considered his description. Her next words were a surprise to both of them. "Will you cut it?" she asked impulsively.

"What?" His head turned as he stared at her profile instead of her image.

She still watched him through the mirror. "It's just hair," she shrugged, as she warmed to the idea. "Filaments composed of keratin. It will grow back."

"My father was the barber, Bones," Booth tried to decline her request. "Not me. I've used clippers before but . . . No," he shook his head. "I'll find you someone who knows what she's doing. They wanted to cut it before you woke up but . . ." _I wouldn't let them._

She turned to face him. "I trust you." _Just__ you._

Silence passed between them, a moment that stretched out when neither could look away from the other. Then Booth nodded. "Okay." He put the lid down on the commode and eased her to a seat carefully. "Don't move," he ordered sternly.

Before she could make a crack about running a marathon or escaping out the window, he was gone.

He made his request at the nurses' station outside Brennan's room, and then had to wait several minutes while the call went out until a set of clippers was located and delivered from another floor. Back in the bathroom, he opened the soft vinyl case and carefully examined each cutting guard until he found the one he wanted. After looking over the tool itself, he turned to Brennan.

"So, do you want a high-and-tight or a flat top?" When her answer was an uncertain frown of confusion, he smiled. "I'm kidding." He held up the clippers. "This will leave it pretty long. I promise you won't look like GI Jane."

Predictably, she asked "Who?"

"Nevermind." His expression turned serious. "Are you sure about this?"

Brennan didn't hesitate. "Yes." She closed her eyes and lifted her chin. "I don't want to look like George or Jane."

"Boy Geor -" Booth started to correct her, then shook his head. "Alright. Keep your eyes closed."

Without allowing himself time to think about what he was about to do, he made one slow pass through the thick mass of hair, pausing only to watch the first locks fall to the floor. He glanced down at her often as he worked, sitting in front of him, back straight, eyes closed, hands open and relaxed in her lap. She moved once - when he adjusted the angle of her head with a soft touch on her chin, she gently covered his fingers with her own for a few seconds before letting them fall away.

In a matter of minutes he was done and her hair was a sleekly fitting cap of dark, shining silk.

Brennan's eyes opened slowly and lifted to his. He smiled encouragingly and helped her stand. "Take a look."

He was just behind her as she examined her reflection again. The hair above her right ear was still shorter than the rest but the total effect was not unbecoming.

"Well," sighed as she tugged at the short fringe on her forehead, "it's different."

Booth cupped his hands over her shoulders and ran them down her arms to the elbow. There was a new fragility to her that tugged at his heart. "You could never be anything but beautiful," he said simply. Through the mirror, her gaze flew to his.

"Why did you stay with me?" she whispered suddenly. The air in the small bathroom was instantly too thick to breathe. "All this time . . . you stayed."

His hands tightened over her shoulders as he stared at the face in the mirror. Beneath the new hairstyle, her eyes were huge and dark, the irises almost hidden behind distorted pupils. "You needed me." His voice was as rough as it was soft. On her cheek he could see the faint trace of a new scar.

Her sharp intake of breath was audible. "Oh." She blinked once, and then again. "Of course." Her eyes dropped to his hands. "I thought . . . maybe . . ."

His jaw hardened; a muscle jumped visibly. _I have __never ever cheated on_ any woman that _I've ever_ been with. He couldn't respond. Not the way he wanted to. Not yet. "Bones -"

"That's beautiful!" A bright, cheerful voice shattered the moment. Booth dropped his hands and stepped back immediately. "You're so pretty, Temperance!" Deborah beamed at both of them. "You look just like Mia Farrow!"

"I'm not familiar with that person." Brennan's head turned as she watched Booth take a few steps deeper into her room. His back was to her but she saw his shoulders sag and his head drop forward.

Her eyes went to the mirror again and she watched herself blink away a sudden surge of tears.

Deborah helped her back to bed.

The next few minutes were busy, as housekeeping personnel came to sweep up the bathroom and take away her lunch tray. The nurse kept up a prattle of conversation and seemed not to notice that neither Brennan nor Booth gave her much more than monosyllabic responses.

When Deborah finally left them alone again, the silence that fell was heavy and awkward. Attempts at conversation landed painfully flat, and lengthy pauses ended with both of them speaking at once before their voices dropped away again.

For the first time in almost seven weeks, Booth suggested he go home for the night.

Brennan immediately smiled and insisted she was fine, that he should absolutely feel free to leave, that a hospital full of nurses were more than capable of seeing to her needs.

Having her permission to go, he seemed suddenly unwilling to actually do so. He shuffled around the small room instead, slowly gathering up the personal effects he'd accumulated over the time he'd been there.

When he chanced a look at her, she seemed engrossed in one of the journals she'd asked Angela to bring from her office at The Jeffersonian.

Normally so observant, this time Booth didn't notice that she never turned a page.

Finally, he could come up with no good reason to dawdle any longer. He gripped her hand tight then leaned over to press his lips against her forehead.

"I'll be back first thing tomorrow morning," he promised when he straightened.

Brennan tried to smile. "That's not necessary," she said. "If you need to go back to work -"

"First thing," Booth interrupted, already regretting he'd suggested leaving. "Before breakfast even."

Eyes over-bright, not trusting herself to speak, she nodded her understanding and remained silent. Unable to watch him physically walk out of her room, she stared down at the journal in her lap instead.

She didn't see him stop at the door, and again one step outside her room.

She didn't know he stood in front of the elevator for six minutes without punching the button.

Or that he sat in his SUV for 13 minutes before he put the key in the ignition.

She knew she was alone and without correcting the metaphor with fact, she knew that the largest empty space in the room was in her heart.

.

.

Booth turned the key in the lock, pushed open the door to his apartment and hesitated for the space of two breaths before he crossed the threshold.

He tossed his keys on the small table against the wall and let the black duffel bag in his hand fall to the floor as he looked around.

Waning late afternoon sunlight filtered in through the windows, aiding the glow of the one lamp left burning in a corner.

A thin film of dust covered every surface.

The refrigerator hummed to life, the sound overly loud in the silence. More for something to do than because he was actually curious or hungry, Booth wandered into the kitchen and opened the door. Angela had followed his instructions well. Two bottles of beer were on the top shelf. A plastic tub of French onion dip on the second. A bottle of mustard and another of Tabasco sauce were on the door. And that was it.

He walked into the bedroom. Knowing what he would find, he pulled open the top drawer of his dresser.

Empty.

Inside the closet, a few bare hangers tried to fill the otherwise blank space of one wall.

He went back into the living room, sank down on the sofa and let his head drop into his hands. His fingers were just rubbing at his temples when he saw the square white envelope lying flat on his coffee table.

_Seeley_

He stared at it for several minutes before he leaned over and picked it up.

Then he stared at it again.

Finally, he stuck his index finger beneath the gummed seal and tore it open.

_Be __happy__.  
H__._

He read the simple words over and over.

He slipped the plain card back in the envelope, then took it out once more and read it again.

_Be __happy__._

Resolute, he threw the card aside, stood up, and headed for the door.

.

.

Brennan finished the last of the crossword puzzles in the book he'd left behind and laid it on the table beside her bed.

She spread the fingers of one hand wide and with the other, silently counted off each bone.

She brushed against her newly shorn hair with a somewhat insecure gesture.

She stared around the empty room. Her eyes always returned to the chair beside her bed.

With a sigh, she looked up at the TV hung high on the wall and picked up the remote control.

A laugh track filled the silence.

She changed channels.

Gunfire erupted.

She changed channels again.

Someone began to describe a storm system over Kansas.

She lifted the remote control again . . . and paused when a tiny movement caught the corner of her eye.

Booth stood in the doorway of her room, one shoulder leaning against the frame.

The remote dropped to the bed.

"Hey." His voice was a low rasp of sound.

"Hey." Her reply was soft and hesitant. "I . . . I thought you were going home."

He pushed off from the door. "I was," he said. He stopped at the foot of her bed, his eyes deep and fathomless on hers. "When I got there I realized home is where you are."

She couldn't see through the wash of tears that filled her vision. "Booth -" Shifting in bed, she brushed against the remote. The channel switched abruptly.

" _. . . __including __eight __dead __in __Jalawla__. __al __Qaeda-backed Sunni __insurgents__ have __claimed __responsibility__. __This __is __Hannah __Burley__, __reporting __live __from __Baghdad__. __Steve?__"_

Booth reached for the remote control, pointed it to the TV and shut it off. As the sound faded, he walked around the bed and placed it on top of the crossword puzzle book.

Brennan glanced up at the now dark TV and then back at him. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "Earlier . . . I wasn't thinking -"

He ignored the chair and sat down on the bed beside her. "I'm sorry, too," he replied when her words trailed off. "I hurt her. I didn't mean to," he looked down at his clasped hands, "but I know I did. I haven't seen her since -" When his eyes lifted to hers, they were full of remembered anguish and fear. "You were all that mattered."

Brennan took a heavy, painful breath. "I'll talk to her," she offered sincerely. "If you want . . . apologize . . . if it would help . . ."

Booth was already shaking his head. "I'll talk to her. I owe her that." He hesitated. "She left me a note."

Her eyes were large and round, shimmering in the fluorescent light above her bed.

He unclasped his hands and reached for hers. "_Be__ happy__._ That's what she said. _Be __happy__._"

Brennan sank her teeth into her lower lip when she felt it began to tremble.

Booth watched his thumb trace a line in her palm and then suddenly, captured her gaze in his. "I loved her. I want you to know that," he said. "I loved her. She wasn't a . . . a consolation prize because I couldn't have you." He watched his thumb again, as it drew random patterns across her hand. "I didn't think I could fall in love again after . . ." He paused and left the rest of the sentence unspoken. "But I did," he said instead. "I loved her."

Silence fell.

A minute ticked away.

And then another.

"I could have been happy with her," he finally continued. "I would have made it work - I was making it work. But when you . . ." His hand abruptly ceased the restless stroking of hers when he looked up.

"I could have made it work," he said again. "I could have been happy with her." His eyes burned into hers. "But I can't live without you."

A tear slipped free and fell unheeded over her cheek. "I was wrong," she whispered. "That night . . . in front of Sweets' office . . ." She struggled for composure. "I was afraid. I didn't want to take the risk . . . I couldn't take the chance." Another tear followed the first. "Now I'm afraid not to." She wiped her cheek dry. "I understand now, we only regret what we never try." She was open and vulnerable, as he'd rarely seen her. "I don't want to have regrets, Booth." Her eyes searched his. "Is it too late? Am I too -" Fear closed off her throat. She couldn't speak.

He took what seemed to be the first full breath of air he'd had since the phone call about her accident. His shoulders relaxed, the heat in his expression became something else, something warm and comforting. "It's never too late. Today is the first day of the rest of our lives," he answered with a smile.

A small lined formed between her eyebrows. "Well, yes, but technically that's true of -"

He silenced her with a kiss, with the simple pressure of his lips on hers, a kiss she accepted almost reverently. A gentle kiss salted with tears, that hinted at tomorrow and promised forever.

When he finally lifted his head, his eyes remained closed.

And so did hers.

Until blue eyes opened to meet brown.

"Booth, I -"  
"Bones, I -"

"I knew you couldn't stay away!" Deborah's bright voice intruded like a splash of cold water. "I guess you'll be needing another blanket and pillow tonight, huh?"

Booth dropped his forehead against Brennan's.

"I hate her," he whispered.

Brennan laughed. "Baby steps," she whispered back, and kissed him again.

.

.

_The End_

* * *

_**I always feel sorry when a multi-chapter story comes to an end. It's like saying goodbye to old friends. **  
_

_**Thanks again to Excellent Driver for this most excellent prompt. Without her idea, this story would never have happened. If you read it and enjoyed it, you should be sure to tell her thanks, too.  
**_

_**Also, thanks to Biba79, who organizes this Secret Santa fic exchange. Is it 2013 yet?! :-D  
**_

_**And last but definitely not least, thanks to all of you for reading!  
**_

* * *

The Heart Won't Lie  
(Lyrics)**  
**

Looking back over the years  
Of all the things I've always meant to say  
But the words didn't come easily  
So many times through empty fears  
Of all of the nights I tried to pick up the phone  
So scared of who might be answering

You try to live your life from day to day  
But seeing you across the room tonight  
Just gives me away

Chorus:  
Cause the heart won't lie  
Sometimes life gets in the way  
But there's one thing that won't change  
I know I've tried  
The heart won't lie  
You can live your alibi  
Who can see you're lost inside a foolish disguise  
The heart won't lie

Long after tonight  
Will you still hear my voice through the radio  
Old desires make us act carelessly  
Long after tonight, after the fire  
After the scattered ashes fly  
Through the four winds blown and gone  
Will you come back to me?

You try to live your life from day to day  
But seeing you across the room tonight  
Just gives me away

Chorus:  
Cause the heart won't lie  
Sometimes life gets in the way  
But there's one thing that won't change  
I know I've tried  
The heart won't lie  
You can live your alibi  
Who can see you're lost inside a foolish disguise  
The heart won't lie


End file.
